Frozen Animation
by A. of Arcadia
Summary: As Lance mourns Pietro's death, he takes us through the stages of loss and tells us about the relationship they had. LancePietro, R for language, gore, and death.


A/N: This is long... very long... and slightly depressing. Don't read it unless you're okay with homosexuality, violence, and death. Thank you to Rachel, who betaed this for me.

**Frozen Animation**

**By: Aloren Häretisch**

****

At 4:30 p.m. there was a knock at the door.

Officer Sanders and Officer Hennessy stepped through the threshold and into our home after I answered. "Mister Alvers," Sanders said quietly, without looking me in the eyes. I dreaded hearing my name coming from those lips; I dreaded it, and had heard it so often lately. Every single day at least one of them came to see me, and every single time it was bad news. I waited for it to come, my blood cold and solid like water pipes in December. I waited for his message... had they found his ring, his shoe, a lock of his hair? Perhaps a finger, or an ear, or a piece of his leg.

But this time it took a while to come. Sanders shifted from one foot to the other while Hennessy glanced down at her shoes. And at that moment, I knew, and had to fight the rush of adrenaline to keep myself from breaking down on the threshold of the door.

"Perhaps we should go into the living room," Hennessy finally suggested after it became obvious that Sanders was having trouble delivering today's news.

But I knew what they were going to tell me. God, I knew.

_This can't be happening._

"Yeah, of course," I heard someone say. It took me a few seconds to realize that painful, chalky voice was mine. Swallowing numbly, I motioned the two towards the sofa, and then slumped down into my favorite chair. It felt like rocks pressing into my bones.

"Mister Alvers," Sanders sighed once more, attempting to explain their presence again. This time he was more successful. "We believe we've found a rather... large amount of blood." I stared at him with blank brown eyes, eyes that betrayed no horror, no pain. "After comparing it with the sample of Pietro's DNA you gave us, we've determined that it is his blood." He trailed off, his focus faltering and falling to the coffee table in front of him. Officer Hennessy sighed and folded her hands in her lap.

"Next to the blood we found gun shells," she continued when her partner could not. "Four of them. The lab is running tests right now."

"Someone shot Pietro," I finally repeated. "That's what you're telling me. Pietro was shot."

Sanders swallowed loud enough for everyone to hear. "Mister Alvers, due to this new evidence we... we're going to start investigating this as a murder case. Not as a missing persons." His fists were clenched together tight enough to expose his large, white knuckles.

"Murder..." _This isn't happening._ "He... could still be alive, though. People've been shot and lived before!"

Hennessy, who hadn't made eye contact with me once, stared solemnly at her shiny black shoes. "Due to the amount of blood, and the number of shots, we've decided it highly unlikely that the victim could have lived. His attacker obviously meant to kill him."

"But I told you, he's a mutant!" I yelled, jumping to my feet without noticing. I was angry then, extremely angry. Angry at the person who shot him, angry at Pietro for not running away, angry at myself, but most of all, angry at those fucking cops. And every time they called my boyfriend "the victim", it got much worse. I could have ripped the house apart at that moment. "I told you, he's fast! Maybe... maybe the blood replenished or something faster than most people! Maybe his wounds healed! Maybe it's the murderer's blood too!" The fact that I referred to Pietro's attacker as "the murderer" betrayed what I was really thinking.

No matter how many straws I'd grasped at, no matter how many excuses I had, there wasn't an inch of hope inside of me. Living on the streets taught me exactly what all of this meant. The criminal attacked my Pietro, and he had fought and struggled. When it looked like Pietro was going to win, the man pulled a gun and shot him four times before my poor boy could react. It wasn't unlikely... I'd gotten one up on him many times through the art of surprise. Pietro hadn't been expecting a gun. But now...

"I'm afraid, Mister Alvers, that there are no separate procedures for humans and mutants. We must follow this under the presumption that Pietro was just like every other victim," Hennessy said, her voice steely and calm. I hated her. I hated her more than anything in the world, and could have brought the roof down on her head.

"But he's NOT like every other victim!" I growled. Suddenly, tiny tremors broke out under my feet. The glass in the windows rattled as Hennessy slowly reached for her gun, her eyes finally locked firm and aiming at me. The seizures died suddenly and I sank, defeated, picturing the terror on my poor boy's face as he stared down the barrel of his killer's weapon. Eyes wide, mouth open... never once thinking to run away. I could see the color draining from his face as he watched the trigger pulled. I could almost hear his last thoughts. They echoed through my head like voices of a schizophrenic, making me mad, torn, terrified. I felt his pain, I felt his terror, and I realized that now it was my own.

I lived out Pietro's death in my head over and over again. Automatically, I saw the officers out. At 4:45 p.m. they were gone. And once the lock clicked, I sank to the ground and screamed.

It was my job to deliver the news to the rest of the house. They found me still huddled by the door, clutching my knees and breathing hard. Almost every window in the house had broken during my cry. Todd said I kept sending quakes out strong and often enough to shake the foundations of our home and worry our neighbors, who lived blocks away. I don't remember any of this.

When they finally shook me out of my state of shock, it was only Todd and Freddy who stood in front of me. I blinked up at them with a ghost's eyes. There was sweat pouring down my cold face. As Todd spoke, spots danced in front of my eyes, and they all reminded me of him.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Todd asked quietly, his face frozen with numb acceptance. Fred placed a hand on my shoulder and asked the same question by squeezing it reassuringly.

"How did you know?" I replied. I sounded so far away. Down the hall, across the street, in another country, locked in a nightmare.

"Why else would you be like this?" he replied, logic falling hard and flat under his tone. "Wanda took one look at you and went back upstairs. I think she's known all along."

"What happened?" Fred asked softly.

"I don't want to talk about it." And I never did want to talk about it, even when they dragged it out of me anyway.

I spent the night downstairs because I was too afraid to go up. I was terrified of his door, of his belongings, of his smell. I sat on the couch, hands twisting like wires, and thought of how my baby moved. I saw it as gracefully as a person watching a film. His hands would flourish, his legs would glide, his figure would dance before me with the simplest gesture. Everything he did was so cinematic, so begging to steal away my attention. Theatrical – he'd move to his own beat with hypnotizing steps. Left, right, left, turn; he stole my heart away I found my pulse meeting his choreography. We never stopped dancing, and he always led.

Occasionally a car would drive past our home, its headlights gleaming a heartbreaking silver on the dead television screen. Breathlessly I'd watch it burst with bright reflections and fade with a misty quality into the nighttime. My eyes burned with the memory it stirred.

A year ago -- a year and three months to be precise -- we'd sat upon this couch together. We weren't intimate yet, but I remember the glow of his features echoing in my mind. Silver pictures flickered like candles across his pale face. I wanted him more than anything in the world.

It was movie night in the Brotherhood house, which made it Wednesday, around seven o'clock. Tonight had been Pietro's turn to pick, much to everyone's discontent. He'd been very fond of musicals, especially the romantic ones. This was our second time watching Moulin Rouge together. He knew every word, and lip synced along with each number. I would have been annoyed at anyone else doing this, but I was placated by watching his beautifully animated face. His expressions, his looks of joy and excitement, and his particular euphoric enthusiasm (with accompanying squeal of delight) when Nicole Kidman sang her song about diamonds were all preciously engraved into my desire for him. They made me grow more passionately devoted to watching his face. Yes, I was perfectly happy observing my delicate friend as he whispered the lines along with the cast, predicting their tones, their emotions, their plots.

But the part that made that night so completely unpredictable was when he caught me studying him. "This is my favorite part," he'd said, blue eyes turning to my form on the other end of the couch. But right after he'd said it, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He'd seen my rapt attention before I could turn my face away. I don't know what crossed through his mind at that point, but he'd read and recognized my enamored expression as easily as if he were watching a scene of unrequited love on television. He knew then, finally, after months of this frustrating secrecy, how I felt about him.

To my nervous delight, Pietro let a slow smile touch his face. In his eyes he promised no rejection. And as quick as could be, he slid over to my side of the couch and captured my hand. With a squeeze, he happily placed a kiss upon my mouth and kept it there while I wordlessly described how much I adored him. In that moment, Pietro and I sat together, lips claimed and courting one another, and shifted our entire relationship from teammate and friend, to silent, breathtaking devotion, while Ewan McGregor sang a ballad to his fictional beloved.

Remembering his lips, his fluttering lashes, and the rose petal complexion of his cheeks finally broke me. As I sank into the spot where we'd shared our first kiss, I curled in upon myself and wept. I cried for loss, I cried for vengeance; for his lifeless eyes, his cold hands, his dried mouth, and his frozen animation.

I didn't sleep that night as storms broke over the coasts, but I do remember the rising of the sun. As its shafts touched me, merrily glittering upon the dust, I bitterly prayed that this was some sort of tribute to my bloodless, mutilated Pietro. _I hope the sun warms you, baby,_ I thought, hollow and dry. _Wherever you're lying now._

The first stage that hit me was denial. Because that very morning, I got up from the couch and finally entered Pietro's room. It was like a still-frame, completely unmoving, with no sign of life. And yet the presence of my beloved was so strong I almost began to see him there. I closed the door with a cold click and settled down upon his bed.

For the first time in days I rested, relaxed, and closed my eyes. His scent lingered upon the sheets. Pietro always smelled like tea, shampoo, and a bit of lotion that he wore on his hands. Upon the fabric I detected the faint trace of his sweat, left from the last time we'd had sex. The combination would have driven me mad with grief had I not been so terribly tired and drained. Here in the darkness, with the smell of my darling so close to me, I felt at peace. It was as if he had been there the entire time, and this mess had only been a lie.

As I pulled the covers over my body, I glanced around the room one more time. The gentle sun melted upon a half-empty bottle of root beer, a pile of papers, open books... things that were still there because he hadn't finished using them yet. There were so many uncompleted things in his room, so many messes he never got around to cleaning. My stubborn eyelids dropped down again and then I was drifting away in the remaining energy of Pietro's room.

As I fell to sleep, I convinced my drowsy mind that none of it was real. This was just like any other morning; after all, I'd slept in his bed too many times to count. My boy was simply downstairs, up with the sun as always, making me breakfast for when I'd finally drag myself up into the world of the waking. That had to be it. How could he be dead when everything in here was still so alive?

I slept soundly, peaceful dreams of him drifting through my mind like clouds. I saw myself get up, go downstairs, and greet my busy little chef with a loving kiss. I watched his pale face grin happily at me, so warm and loving, just like always. "I made you some bacon," he said, his voice proud and pleased. "And some pancakes." I saw myself thank him, take a plate, and sit. I waited until he was finished making his tea and had joined me at the table before I began to eat. He always did like watching me eat; I knew because he smiled so adoringly at me that sometimes it would make me blush mid-chew.

"I love you," I said to him after swallowing, as was our little tradition each morning. And as always, he'd only smile and nod. He didn't need to say it back. I translated it from every single time he cooked for me or watched my face over the rim of his teacup.

Those were always such pleasant times. That was the calm before the start of the day. Before everyone was up, before there were five voices chattering loudly about their plans. It was the minutes I shared in silent, blissful romance with my lover that I remembered the fondest. Thus it was only natural that I dreamed of them, and awoke to find myself completely revived and in fresh spirits.

The sun still shined bright in the corner of his large windows. Its buttery yellow light warmed my eyelids and, though I stubbornly clung to sleep, made my dream world evaporate into a bloody red. With a heavy exhalation, I woke up and greeted the day in a new mood. Everything was okay today. No one was crying, no one had died. All was good in the world.

And that's how I remained over the next few days. Pietro wasn't dead; I just kept missing him. He was out whenever I was in, or in another room, or on a long vacation. I ignored Todd and Freddy's looks of sympathy and concern, and I ignored the fact that Wanda had locked herself in her room and hadn't come out in days. I changed the subject deftly every time someone wanted to talk about my darling's absence. And no one had the heart to break me out of this delirium, because everyone was afraid of what would come when I woke up from my dreaming.

Every delusion I had of things being okay was shattered three days later when there was another knock on the door. I didn't know who it was, but certainly didn't think it would be anyone strange. Unfortunately, as I answered it, to my surprise I found the man known as Magneto standing on our stoop. And that's when I realized that all of my hopes over the last few days were the pathetic wishes of a boy who'd lost everything.

He wore regular civilian clothing, which was definitely surreal to see. I never saw him in anything but his armor and cape. But as I studied him in shock, I realized just how unlike himself he seemed. He looked haggard, tired, and defeated. Magneto, Master of Magnetism, our former leader, looked like someone had come in the middle of the night and stolen everything he held dear to him.

_So that's what the parent of a dead child looks like._

And that's when it all came rushing back. Pietro was dead. Someone had shot him, and here was his father, here to make plans for the funeral or discuss the life his dead little boy had while he stayed in this house. Maybe he wanted to talk about my relationship with Pietro.

My knees almost gave out right there. As Magneto stared into my eyes, I thought I was going to get sick all over the stoop. All the color drained from my face and was replaced by a desperate shade of green.

"Avalanche," the man finally said tonelessly.

"Call me Lance, please," I replied instantly. I wasn't too sure why I requested this, but something about the father of my dead boyfriend referring to me as "Avalanche" really set me off.

_Oh god. My dead boyfriend._

"Call me Erik if you'd like," he said in a flat voice that told me he really didn't care what I referred to him as. I nodded, shifting my eyes to the ground. I decided I'd take him up on that and call him by his real name, because it seemed strange to call this man Magneto while he was wearing a blue sweater and slacks. And I'd never call him "sir" like Pietro had.

"Come inside, then," I said and opened the door further. The minute we stepped into the living room, I collapsed miserably on the couch -- Erik was making a beeline for my favorite chair. But I didn't care; he could have the chair if he wanted. All I could think about was my poor, still Pietro and his father, who was visibly torn apart by the loss of his only son.

For a few minutes neither of us spoke. Erik was looking around the living room, inspecting the place his child had lived in the last days of his existence. I saw his eyes flit to the stairs and knew immediately that he was wondering if Pietro's room was upstairs, and if he'd be able to see it. Suddenly, I thought of poor Wanda up there, isolating herself for days. The thought of her alone, hungry, grieving over the death of her twin broke my heart all over again. _I can't imagine what that must be like... they loved each other so much. _

A knot of anger developed in my stomach as a voice in my head asked, "Didn't you love him just as much, Lance?"

_I did, more than anything. He was all I had in the entire world. My only friend, my only companion, my only family... fuck. _

Thankfully, Erik broke my train of thoughts; now if only it had been a pleasant subject. "Tell me about the last days of his life," he said firmly, as if it were an order. But I could hear the pain in his voice. It was the same pain I heard in mine every time I spoke. He'd been devastated by this turn of events, just as much as me, or Wanda, or anyone who loved Pietro desperately had been. Only he was trying with iron will to hold himself together in front of me, while I was about to throw up in my lap. The churning of my stomach and the pressure in my head was almost too much to bear. I wanted so badly just to release all of my heartache into the ground and rattle the very roots of the world.

I swallowed rough bile and closed my eyes. _The last days of his life..._ I felt like crying so hard then, thinking about the night he'd stormed out. He'd been angry with me; we'd had a fight about something stupid. The guilt I felt at that moment was so unbearable that I stopped breathing for a moment and just covered my face with my hands. I wanted to die, because I knew Pietro's reason for being out the night of his murder was my fault. I'd killed my beloved over something stupid.

I don't know how long it took me to finally put the words together to answer him; but when I looked up there were tears of shame and misery at the corners of my eyes. Like an angry child I dashed them away with the back of my hand. I suddenly wished Pietro was there to gently wipe them away and kiss my face the way I'd done for him so many times... the way he'd done for me once before.

"Nothing out of the ordinary happened, I guess," I said, my voice thick with unshed tears. "But the night he... god. That night we got into an argument. He... he had a friend coming in from New York City and I didn't want him to see him. I've always been jealous of this friend, I guess. They dated a few times. Stupid shit like that... but I told him I want to be there whenever they were together. And Pietro... Pietro got upset with me and said I didn't trust him. He stormed out of the house and never came back."

Telling Erik this was so difficult, I couldn't stand it anymore. All of my barriers broke and the tears began to flow freely. I tried to speak again, but my voice broke and twisted my words into a sob. And there I was, weeping in front of Pietro's father like a baby. I never felt so ashamed and wretched before in my life.

"God! I just... he died hating me," I said with a shaky breath as I furiously wiped my tears away, mortified by my display of weakness. But I kept talking. "He was so mad... I deserved it. Fuck, this is all my fault. If I hadn't been such a bastard... if I had trusted him... oh god, I'm going to be sick." I squeezed my eyes closed tightly and clamped my hands over my mouth. The churning in my stomach became so nauseating I thought I was going to lose it right there. _Breathe, Lance, breathe! In and out, in and out... calm down... steady now._

"You were very close to him," Erik said suddenly. When I opened my eyes I realized he was leaning forward, studying my breakdown with a sick fascination. I swallowed, took a shallow breath, and wiped my nose, suddenly very self-conscious under the gaze of this man. "You loved him. Did he love you?"

"I... I think he did," I replied quietly, desolately, as my gaze shifted to my lap. "He said he did. Everyday. He was... kind of my boyfriend." I waited to hear some indication of shock; a sharp intake of breath, a foot hitting the ground, a grunt. But there was nothing. After a few minutes of silence, which really felt like hours, I looked up at him with red, pleading eyes.

"Young man, if this had come up a week ago I would have beaten the hell out of you," Erik said finally. The burning in his eyes told me he was telling the truth. "I do not approve of my son's homosexuality, and I do not approve of him having boyfriends. I assume you were sleeping together." The guilty downcast of my eyes affirmed this. "As I thought. But... my son is dead now thanks to a rash act of violence. I will not punish you for encouraging Pietro. You are suffering enough without having to shoulder my disapproval."

"I believe you have it all wrong, however," he continued, ignoring the breaking of his voice that came almost as easily as mine now. "Pietro did not die hating you, nor is this your fault. The fault lies in the animal that pulled the trigger on my son. The blame goes to him and only him. Don't burden yourself with more than you already have, young man. You don't deserve it. From the sound of it, you made my boy happier than I ever did... and I thank you for that."

There was something peculiar about the tone his words took. He sounded almost hypocritical; guilty, for lack of a better word. I watched his tired old face curiously, my heart reaching out to him with surprising force. I actually felt sympathy and pity for this man. Why?

And then I remembered the time Pietro told me about what life was like growing up with Erik. He said it had been hell; his father always pushing him too hard, dragging him down, berating him, insulting him, crushing him. He admitted that he'd even been beaten a few times. So as I recalled these things and looked at the face of my darling's abusive parent, I realized why I suddenly felt so bad for him. Erik was feeling the same heavy-handed, sickening guilt I was feeling. He actually regretted all the years he spent trying to break his son's spirit, to turn him into the perfect little soldier. He hated himself for not making Pietro's life easier.

So he was thanking me for stepping in and saving the day.

"E-Erik," I stammered, absolutely blown away by how much this man was breaking my heart. Never in my entire life did I think I'd feel so bad for this madman. And yet, suddenly he didn't seem so insane anymore. He was actually on the exact same boat I was on. "I... I don't think... I mean, well, don't give me all of the credit. Pietro loved you very much. He talked about you all the time. I know he looked up to you..."

Erik closed his eyes and swallowed, his eyebrows furrowing in an effort to fight the obvious pain that was welling up inside of him. Once again I was struck at how surreal this was. "It's okay," I continued, attempting to be reassuring. "I think he forgave you for all the bad times."

"May I see his room?" he asked in the smallest, most broken voice I'd ever heard on a man. The sound of it brought new tears to my eyes. "He never kept anything in our house. This... this was his home. I want to see where my boy was happy."

He touched things delicately, as if he expected his son's possessions to wither away in his dirty hands. Each and every time he caressed an object, a shadowed look passed over his face. "Another thing he loved that I never gave him," I heard him say once. "So much of his life I wasn't a part of."

I was afraid to sit down, thinking it would be disrespectful. But as I saw him point out items that held so many memories, my knees turned to rubber, and I fell onto my boy's bed weakly. I felt so numb in that room right then. It still smelled of him; all of the unfinished things were still there. But now I realized that they didn't mean he'd be back for their completion. It finally hit me that they were going to stay unfinished. These tasks he'd started would never be complete. _Like me. Like Erik._

The numbness melted away into a terrible horror as I looked around. _He's not coming back. I'm never going to see his face again. He won't be here when I wake up, he won't make me breakfast anymore...I'm not complete now that he's gone. I'm not... how can I go on when everything I had has been taken from me?_

I closed my eyes to stop the tears, but all it did was squeeze them out again.

I could remember the first time I sat up with him and talked all night. My head had been in his lap as he gently stroked my hair, lovingly, possessively. I was his that night; unable to resist his caresses, his long, lingering kisses. I would have done anything for him.

"Tell me where you came from, Lance," he had asked suddenly, after the conversation had slowed to a peaceful silence. "Did you like your foster home? How long were you there?"

I looked upside down into his dark blue eyes and frowned. "Not too long," was my only reply.

"Where were you before?"

"A few homes... mostly the orphanage though. Not too many people wanted a kid with my record."

His fingers brushed through my hair with such sensitivity. I knew he was going to try for answers that lay deeper; but was I ready to give them? The old safety mechanism locked down tight and pulled my face into an apathetic expression. This was my defense – if I didn't care, it couldn't hurt me. I'd spent years perfecting this, years of building and numbing and desensitizing myself. Little did I know that Pietro's gentle understanding would break through my walls faster than I ever expected. He knew that behind that mask was really just a kid who'd been abandoned and forgotten all his life.

"Did you know your parents?" he asked with genuine interest and concern. I stared at him without a trace of emotion in my eyes, then sat up and looked him in the face.

"I lived with my father until I was about twelve," I responded robotically.

"And then what happened?"

Without blinking, I braced myself and admitted, "He died."

Pietro's eyes had widened and a look of pure sympathy melted across his face. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry... I didn't know," he whispered, putting a soft hand on my knee. My face didn't move an inch, and my eyes stared into his as if they were dead.

"Eh," I just shrugged, "No biggie."

The look on my baby's face at that moment was enough to melt away any resolve I had. Maybe it was his eyes telling me I was wrong. They always did say so very much about him and what went through his head.

"Lance..." he uttered, as if I'd just stabbed myself in the arm and claimed I didn't feel a thing. "You don't have to do that. It's okay to feel pain when things hurt." I stared blankly, my mouth drying up. How could he see past me so easily? "It's okay to let it out. Otherwise you just... let it all build up." A grim smile, with just a dash of serenity and shame, touched his pretty mouth. "Why do you think I cry whenever I'm upset? I'd explode if I kept it in."

"I haven't exploded yet," I replied cautiously, unable to accept his custom. I was too hardened to cry; the dam was built with too many bricks. "I doubt I will."

"Let's make sure you don't." And with that he put a hand on my dark cheek and stared deep into my eyes. "Tell me, truthfully, that it didn't hurt when your father died. Tell me you weren't upset when you were taken from your home and forced to live in an orphanage. Tell me the truth, Lance. Did it hurt? Was your father a good person? Were your foster parents good people? Did you cry when they sent you back?"

My instincts told me to shut him up, but no one had ever asked me those things before. It was very hard to stir up memories I had shrugged off. And for some reason, the sincerity and determination in my love's eyes made it impossible to lie. All of those things had hurt me. My dad had been a much-loved asshole who died from a drug overdose. I was considered a troublemaker because I was so unresponsive at the orphanage and avoided all of their attempts to help me. I'd been through nine different families; most didn't even last a year. No matter where I went, no matter who I ended up with, no one wanted me. I wasn't good enough for the abusive drunks, I wasn't good enough for the fundie Christians, and I wasn't good enough for the hippies.

And yes, each and every brick on my wall hurt me. All of the rejection cut me so badly. All of the horror of life on the streets scabbed it over. I became numb, like I was slowly injecting morphine into my throbbing wounds; addicted, I wandered through life in an emotional coma. Nothing could hurt me with apathy in front of me. Nothing could break me.

But Pietro had done the impossible. Of course he had a major advantage; he was the only person to wiggle into my heart since my father was alive. And he used that by forcing me to tell him, truthfully, that all of that had indeed hurt like hell, and I was simply lying as a way to make it stop. The truth hurt.

In no time I had found myself telling him all about my father and our pathetic, debilitated trailer. I told him about his death and its aftermath, and how I was too devastated to cry all throughout. I told him that even though my dad was a total bastard to me, I still loved him as idealistically as a boy could love his dad. I told him about the orphanage, and the mistreatment I had endured. I described, in detail, each family; every sing-a-long, save the whales hippie bunch, every couple who only settled for me because they couldn't have their own, and then the heavy-handed father... I described each and every dysfunctional home in which I'd drifted in and out, and to the next, a never ending circle of new faces, only none of them were ever good enough.

"I missed Pop so much back then," I'd finally admitted, after telling Pietro a particularly painful story in which my last foster father had actually broken my jaw. "Because, even if he was always on drugs, even if he was always yelling at me, I still knew he loved me unconditionally, you know? He'd make me little presents sometimes, or tell me a story, or sleep in my bed when he was too stoned to yell at me for being scared of the dark. Just... little things here and there. I never thought he hated me, I just thought I was bad."

I remember the waterworks starting, and trying desperately to hold them back. I fought so hard to raise my walls again. But Pietro leaned in close and placed a kiss upon each of my eyes. And suddenly everything was blurred in a storm of tears and hiccups and sobs absorbed into his nightshirt. I hadn't cried since I was about ten years old, but all of a sudden a maelstrom of old misery was leaking out of me through my eyes.

And he had been there the entire time, holding me, rocking me back and forth, and kissing my cheeks gently when I wept a little too hard.

But now that he was dead I didn't know what to do, or who to go to, or how I should feel. There was an overwhelming ache in my chest, much like the one I'd had when my father died... but it was something very different, too. _My god,_ I thought as I rubbed the tears from my face. _Is everyone I love going to die?_

A short gasp from inside the room startled me out of my brooding. I suddenly remembered that Erik was there with me; how long had I been spaced out? Curiously, I looked over and tried to see what was bothering him.

In his hands was a medium-sized photography album, filled to the brim with glossy, colorful pictures. At that point I suddenly remembered last Christmas, where I'd given Pietro his very first camera. It was a sleek silver model, just like him, and the salesman had promised it took the sharpest picture my money could buy. Pietro had been absolutely ecstatic; he ran around the house screaming, "Say 'cheese'!", and snapping shots of everyone and everything in his path.

By the end of the day he'd not only finished all five rolls of film I'd given him, but also had gone out and stolen some more. Most of the pictures ended up pretty bad, he'd grumbled as we drove away from the photo mat the next day. "All a bunch of decapitated bodies and pictures of my thumb." His face screwed into a pout as he flip, flip, flipped through each wasted picture.

"Of course," I'd replied with a smile on my face. "Photographers don't run around clicking the button as many times as they can. They sit, watch, and wait for the right moment. And when they catch something beautiful, _that's_ when they click."

"Something beautiful, huh..." he'd uttered, his pretty little pout gone in an instant. After that he'd retreated deep into his thoughts and said nothing more the entire way home.

To my surprise, Erik suddenly sat down on the bed next to me, the album open in his lap. I looked down and felt a bright stab in my heart as Pietro's lovely face beamed back at me. He held up a peace sign, a huge grin on his face, his blue eyes glimmering with laughter. Behind him were a large roller coaster, a line, and a ton of concession stands. I also recognized Todd and Freddy in the background. Todd looked like he was yelling at Fred, while the blonde laughed in big guffaws as he held the boy's cotton candy above his head. Wanda stood next to them, rolling her eyes, her arms crossed; but on her face was an amused little smirk.

Now I remembered this photo. That had been in March, when Todd had stolen the wallet of a man who was holding free passes to an amusement park upstate for his family. So naturally we'd gone that very weekend and had a blast. The park boasted the fastest roller coaster in New England, which of course had tickled Pietro pink. Coming off the ride, he was a bundle of excitement and satisfaction.

"That was the best ride EVER!" he'd whooped, a brilliant grin stretching from ear to ear. "Here, baby, take a picture!" And he'd shoved the camera into my hands and struck a triumphant pose.

On the bottom of the photo, my darling wrote in long blue script, "Pietro Defeats the Cyclone! '04".

_Fuck. When did I start crying again?_

Erik was flipping through the pages now, and I was treated again and again to my boy's beloved face. He was so naturally photogenic; like a model, he always struck poses and moved for the camera, left, right, left, turn. My heart hurt so badly in the time spent watching his form flip by that I wanted to just collapse the house on myself and end my misery for good. Nothing could possibly have hurt more than seeing his dear eyes so many times.

_You always were so narcissistic, love._

But what hurt just as much as his pictures was realizing he had just as many of me. All over the album were scattered images of my face that I never remembered him taking. A shot of me sleeping, reading, watching TV, fighting with Todd; and all had captions like, "Lancey-poo's Naptime, '03" or "Hot Stuff! Lance In the Shower! '04" Occasionally there were shots that he liked or found cute, because instead of a caption there'd be a little heart drawn in red marker.

But the most disturbing shots were the ones that depicted the both of us together. I recognized one in particular from when he'd asked Freddy to get a shot of us on Christmas Day, to christen his new gift. But after the big guy had yelled a jolly, "say cheese!", Pietro had spun around and placed a long, hard kiss on my lips. In the shot, my eyes were wide with shock and my checks were bright red. After developing it, Pietro had laughed for five minutes over how "precious and petrified" I'd looked.

There was one photo of us he'd taken by holding the camera at an arm's length while I was asleep. We were in bed, me in dreamland and him grinning pervishly at the lens. We were both obviously naked under the sheets; I, to my never ending embarrassment (and Erik's disgust, judging by his sharp grunt), had a rather bad case of morning wood. Pietro's hand was draped possessively across my thigh while his long white arm stretched across the right side of the picture. To make my mortification even worse, the caption on this one said, "Gonna Get Me Some! '04".

"Well," Erik grumbled, causing the blood to rush into my face. "Could have lived without seeing that one."

But then I realized, as a pang of horror struck me mute, that the first picture on the next page was of the very thing I'd been dreaming of for days. There I was, sitting at the table, stuffing myself with Pietro's French toast. It was one of our precious, silent mornings together, just the two of us. In the far corner of the shot I could see the rim of his teacup and the points of his delicate fingertips.

I swallowed hard and looked away, trying to focus on something else, the weather, the news, anything but that picture. But my mind kept picturing his face in the early morning sunshine and his lovingly prepared meals.

_Fuck, Pietro. I miss you so much._

Any picture that wasn't of me or him was of Wanda. In most of them she was grimacing at him or rolling her eyes. Wanda was not photogenic like her brother and hated taking pictures. But in one particular photo, my baby had managed to steal her rare smile. The caption under read, "Something Beautiful, '04." And my heart shattered all over again.

Once more I thought of her only a few doors down, alone in the dark, while her father and I flipped through her brother's photo album. I wondered if she missed his smile as much as I did. I wondered if she heard his voice at night, or imagined his warm body against hers, or longed for the smell of his hair. Did she cry? Was she upset or just avoiding the drama? How did one feel after they'd lost their twin?

"There's not a single picture of me in here," I suddenly heard Erik whisper. I turned and stared at him curiously, and watched as he closed the photo album. His fingers gripped the sides so tightly I could see the blood drain away. But it was the look of devastation on his face turned my insides cold. I couldn't help but glance away. "He didn't keep anything of me. Oh god, he really _did_ hate me. My little boy hated me."

I didn't look back at him, but I could tell by the muffled weeping that he'd put his head in his hands and had begun to cry. I'd never heard a more heartbreaking sound before in my life than the sound of this man, once so powerful and mighty, breaking down into whimpering pieces beside me. Every time he inhaled, he made a noise so much like the squeaking way Pietro'd cry that I couldn't help it. Within minutes my eyes had begun to water as well.

As my vision clouded and burned, I was once again struck by how surreal this was. Me and Erik, crying broken, desolate tears and slowly gravitating towards each other; soon I was in his arms and he was in mine, and we were just clinging, not holding, onto each other as if we were the last two people on Earth. And maybe we were.

Erik asked to be alone an eternity later, and so begrudgingly I complied. As I slunk out the room and closed the door softly, I turned to glance down the hall and received a loud shock as I realized Wanda stood right in front of me.

"Were you planning on telling me Father's here?" she asked in a calm, lackluster tone I'd never heard from her before. I'd heard deadpan, sarcasm, anger, apathy, but never this. It was like hearing the silence after a hard gust of wind. I don't know why, but I had expected her to be angry, or broken, or miserable. But as I looked at her face, for once clean of make-up, I saw none of the spark I'd seen so many times before. There was no liveliness in her skin and I realized, horrified, that there probably hadn't been for days. _Is it possible she died with Pietro? The walking dead..._

I looked down into her eyes, hoping to see some of that familiar Maximoff sparkle, but found only flat grey-blue. With eyes so identical to my darling's, the very sight of them made me completely nauseated. I wondered over and over again if this was what Pietro's face looked like as a corpse – dull, dingy, ashen, blank. I hated every implication that his eyes no longer held his infectious laughter anymore.

My heart in my throat, I looked away.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't... I never thought you'd want—"I stammered, stopping myself mid-excuse. There was no fooling her, I knew. I bit my lip softly as she calmly called my lie.

"You've been avoiding me. Don't think I haven't noticed. Toad's come to see me, Fred's come to see me... sometimes multiple times a day. And they've been bringing me food, and telling me how things are coming along. They said you've been feeling great the last few days. Why didn't you come to see me?" Something about her voice made me look into her face again. Those dreadful eyes stared back at me once more like a doll's in the darkness, without even a spot of light touching their glassy, lost irises.

"I... I didn't want..." I tried again, lamely, but found I had no excuse. Deep down inside I knew I'd avoided her because she reminded me of my boy in little ways; whether it was her eyes, her resemblance to Erik, or her gypsy heritage. It was so utterly baffling how someone who was the polar opposite of Pietro could remind me so much of him.

"It's okay, Lance, I know," she interrupted "You haven't come to see me for the same reason I haven't looked in the mirror for five days, or why I haven't left my room." She didn't elaborate.

But suddenly she wasn't looking at me anymore. She was looking right behind me.

"Wanda," I heard someone whisper behind me. Automatically, I stepped out of the way, leaving her able to look directly at the owner of the voice.

"Hello, Father."

Erik's face crushed in on itself at her voice and her expression. His eyes sparkled with new tears suddenly, and I could read every word on his face before he said it. "Oh Wanda," the old man whimpered. "You're my only baby left." In a moment he'd collapsed in her arms and somehow, as if through sheer force of will, she held him upright as he cried.

"My girl, my girl," he sobbed wretchedly into her neck. "First my Anya, now my little boy... oh my god, Wanda, he's dead, he's dead..."

I couldn't bear standing in that hallway with them anymore, but I don't know what made me leave – Erik's pitiful words or Wanda's blank, unsympathetic eyes as she stared into a blank spot on the wall behind her father's head.

I spent the next few days drifting through the stages of loss. Depression hit me the hardest; and though I wasn't isolating myself like Wanda was, it wasn't uncommon for me to cry in the mornings and at dinnertime, when his absence was felt the most. I continued to avoid Wanda as much as possible, which was fine because no one pushed us together anyway. Todd, who was worried sick about her (and missed her spirit more than he missed Pietro, I'm sure) and had taken it upon himself to be her sort of in-home nurse, asked me once why I didn't go to see her more often.

"I think you'd be good support for each other, you know?" he'd suggested gently, not too sure of where the line he couldn't cross was. I'd told him simply to shut up and claimed he didn't understand; he never mentioned it again.

But now that I look back I do realize that Todd did have a better understanding of my situation than I'd previously thought. I had lost my love brutally and suddenly; he was watching his slowly kill herself with madness. He must have been just as heartbroken and desperate as I had been during the days spent searching for my missing Pietro.

The day after Erik's visit, Officer Sanders came to see me again. Hennessy, he claimed, was apparently "busy at the station". I knew that was bullshit. His partner, with her rough face and brittle posture, had been distinctly uninterested in this investigation. At first I thought she was just strong, silent, and detached, but in the beginning she did have a touch of sincerity. But the minute I'd admitted that Pietro was my boyfriend, she'd stopped making eye contact with me all together and avoided every visit that she didn't deem "necessary".

Fred answered the door that day; I was way too afraid to do so anymore. I was sick of the news and company each knock brought. "I'm sorry, Mister Alvers, there's been no word on Pietro's whereabouts", "Mister Alvers, we found something; do you recognize this ring?", "Mister Alvers, you boyfriend's dead and we haven't found the body yet."

I think that was the thing about this situation that disturbed me so much. Where was my baby's corpse? What had his killer done with it? Was he lying in a ditch somewhere, rotting in the sun? Was he cut into pieces and thrown into the river? Had this madman saved his body for some other purpose?

My head swarmed with frightening possibilities, and all of them made me sick to my stomach.

"Lance!" I heard Freddy call up the stairs. "The cop's here to see you!"

With a sigh of exhaustion, I lifted myself up from Pietro's bed and started down the stairs. I hated visitors so much. Most were people expressing "how sorry they were, and if there was anything they could do to help..." A lot of them expected the right to rifle through his room in search of things that he "would have wanted them to have." Many wanted to know when the funeral was. "What would we bury, air?" I'd asked sarcastically while shoving them out the door. "Come back when there's a body."

Phone calls were pretty bad too, and I got so many of them I wanted to rip the cord right out of the wall. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, was calling to find out information. Kitty had called, Principal Kelly (who hated Pietro violently when he was going to school) had called, and even Professor Xavier had given his sympathies. He'd said, "Lance, if you ever need to get away from that house, I assure you that my Institute will always welcome you back with open, supportive arms."

"Thank you, Professor," I'd responded dryly and without any sincerity at all. "But Pietro didn't talk to me for a week after I joined last time. I don't want him to be mad at me ever again, dead or alive."

I think what I despised most about these sympathetic well-wishers was that most of them were people Pietro loathed. One girl in particular, notorious amongst us for her crush on my boy, called me at least five times a day. "I was hoping I could talk to you, I remember the time when Pietro and I were lab partners, and oh, by the way, I'm praying for all of you, and you know deep down I never doubted that he always loved me..." She'd prattle on and on and on some more until I finally faked illness and hung up on her.

But one day she decided she was going to tell me all about the time Pietro had taken her and some friends to the Sadie Hawkins Dance and I lost it. My patience gone, I growled at last, "He was gay and I was fucking him," then hung up the phone when she was mid-sentence. She never called again.

As I came upon the final step, I recognized Sander's figure instantly. _Is this a blessing or a curse? _I wondered darkly, depression still clinging to my heart. But as I sat him down in the living room and looked at his notably excited face, I felt the first pang of hope I'd felt in over a week. "I just wanted to let you know," he started quickly, "that we have a lead suspect."

"Really?!" I cried, practically jumping out of my chair. "Who is it?"

"He's an older man, about medium height, with dark black hair and brown eyes... I can't tell you his name at the moment, but I can tell you this. Apparently he was the suspect of another murder case a while back, but he checked out and wasn't persecuted. Last night we got an anonymous phone call in response to the newspaper article we—"

"There was an article in the paper?"

Sanders blinked at me as if I'd just started speaking in tongues. "Of course. We even interviewed Mr. Lensherr for it. You didn't see it?"

"No," I admitted, feeling rather foolish. "Go on, go on."

"Anyway," he continued, "apparently it was a witness who wished to remain unknown. She said she'd been out walking her dog around that area, same time that night, and saw a man fitting his description carrying what she called a 'slim, black form, all hidden in the shadows and such' away from the site where we found the shells a few days ago. She said she thought it was just a garbage bag, or that he was homeless or something. 'But I think,' she said last night, 'that I saw a bit of white on it. I thought it was awfully strange. Could it have been the boy's hair?'"

I wasn't breathing anymore. I don't even think my heart was beating. Because at that moment, I shifted from the stage of depression to a state of intense rage in a matter of seconds. I could picture the bastard perfectly in my mind, shooting my Pietro until he was dead and dragging him away into the night. Now that I had someone to blame all of this on, my mind began to consider revenge. When they caught this monster, then what? Would I have to meet him? If I found him first, could I kill him? All sorts of gory, furious scenarios played over and over again in my head until I could practically smell his blood on my hands.

"Mister Alvers!" Sanders cried suddenly, snapping me out of my murderous fantasies. I realized then that he was clinging desperately to the side of the sofa, staying at me like I had been causing the earth to—

"Oops. Sorry."

Over the next few days I realized my step into the stage of anger was not going to wear off anytime soon. I became hostile and reclusive; I slept very little and talked to no one. Every second of the day I pictured his murderer's face. And every moment was spent searching, searching, and searching some more around the city for someone who fit the description. I'd come close to killing quite a few innocent men because of it.

But I knew this was what Pietro would have wanted. I could practically hear him in my head, whining and pleading. "Laaaance! That fucker KILLED me! Make him pay!"

"Yes, my love," I'd respond, a slow grin stretching over my mouth. "I'll make him regret it."

And thus was my rapid descent into madness. Each day that passed drove me crazier and crazier. Insanity pressed footprints into my health; I wasn't eating anymore, and ignored my ever-present fatigue. I was a man driven by an entirely different hunger – one for revenge, for blood, to see the face of Pietro's killer twist in pain as I tortured him into a slow, agonizing end.

It had been a week and two days since I'd last seen my baby. But to me, it felt like years.

Sanders came to see me once more, and was rather lucky to find me at home.

"Mister Alvers," he said in a pant. He was clearly out of breath for some reason. "I have something to tell you."

"Hurry up," I responded, closing the door behind me. The sunshine burned on my face and for a moment I saw red. The stupid cop was blocking me from my daily hunt.

"Lab results confirm that," the man explained slowly through inhales and exhales, "all the blood on the scene of the crime was not Pietro's. However, we don't know how much was his, because the rain's washed away most of the evidence. But we think—"

"Look, I don't really give a shit," I growled, pushing him out of my way and taking a step forward. I really failed to see how this mattered. So what if Pietro got a few good shots in before his death? At least he'd made the monster bleed. "It's not bringing him back. Call me when you've found his body."

I sauntered over to my Jeep, becoming more and more enraged as the cop yelled after me. "Wait!" he cried repeatedly. "Wait, please! It's important!"

"Shut the fuck up and get off my lawn!" I screamed as I slammed the door of the car closed, turned the key, and drove off with a roar of the engine echoing my emotions.

Todd and Freddy attacked me the moment I got home. In a house that had been so quite and gray over the past week, there were suddenly multiple voices chattering excitedly at me. "Lance!" Todd cried as I walked in the door. He and Fred practically materialized in front of me. "Where've you been, yo? The cop said you stormed off like eight hours ago!"

"He had something big to tell us," Fred interjected.

"Yeah! Apparently the other blood they found matched the DNA of their suspect." Todd bounced happily in front of me. I was about to ask what the hell he'd been smoking, but all of a sudden I saw Wanda's eyes burning into me from the living room. She'd finally come down.

"So?" I asked, once again getting annoyed by all these obnoxious details. "I already knew it was him. I've been hunting for days."

"Don't you get what this means, though?" Freddy asked me calmly.

"Are you fucking implying that I'm stupid?" I growled, clenching my fists and grinding my teeth down. It was so tempting just to take all of my built-up rage out on them.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, chill _out_, man!" Todd whined, his hands up in the air defensively. "Freddy's just saying that since they did find the dude's blood mixed with Pietro's, all of it may not be his. There's a chance that..."

"He may still be alive," Fred finished.

I stared at them and they stared back, looking at me like they'd just found buried treasure and were offering me some. The optimism and blind joy on their faces was too much; I started laughing. It wasn't laughter of joy, however... it was the kind you'd hear only in movies, when the villain snapped and finally became a true, maniacal madman. Guffaws echoed through the house, loud, harsh, and above all, disbelieving. I laughed long and hard in their pathetically cheerful faces. With each breath that exploded through me, Fred and Todd's twin expressions began to fall. Tears coursed down my cheeks in a matter of minutes, and my housemates' eyes began to glimmer as well, only with heartache and terror.

"Fuck," Todd whispered shallowly, misery not fitting appropriately into his voice. "He finally cracked."

"Don't even start!" I cried, my words breaking and wheezing as I continued to laugh. "Don't even start trying to convince me that there's hope that he's alive!" I swung my arms out in a flourish, a dramatic lunatic drunk on his own agony and hatred. "It's fucking _impossible!_"

"It's slim..." Todd answered low and cautious. "But it's still there."

"FUCK YOU!" I shrieked at the top of my lungs, my voice painful even to my own ears. Suddenly I was infuriated all over again. The look on Todd's angular face, the way Freddy stood dumbfounded, even the way Wanda's eyes drilled into me as I entered the living room pissed me off more than the murder ever did. I'd never felt this way before, and was rapidly losing myself in insanity's sticky red potency.

"Fuck you, Todd! Fuck all of you! What is this, some sort of plot to get my hopes up just so you can crush me again?! IS THAT IT?"

"Lance, you're being paranoid," Wanda finally spoke as my hysterical voice died down for a moment. "Calm down."

"Oh, fucking eat me, Wanda!" I shouted, spinning around and pushing my finger in her pale face. I expected her to glare and fight back, and almost hoped she would; I needed to release this horrible, throbbing pressure in my bones. I needed to waste someone, _quick_. And even though it didn't occur to me at the time just how badly Wanda would beat me, I still wished for nothing more than for her to challenge me. "Do you have any idea what I've been through?!" I egged her on further, itching for combat. "DO YOU?"

But she showed no sign of anger. Her eyes remained flat as she stared, wordless, at my fingertip.

"Don't yell at her!" Todd shouted, defending his darling against me instead.

"Yeah, leave her alone. She didn't do nothin'," Freddy added.

Up until that point in my life, I wasn't quite sure how people managed to "explode". But all of a sudden the walls were rattling violently, threatening to collapse any second; my eyes were in the back of my head, and far, far away I heard myself screaming at them to get the fuck out of the house. Todd was gasping, "Shit!" over and over again, Freddy was yelling, and Wanda was silent still. I heard things breaking and was glad. Why did I have to be alone? Let everything on earth be destroyed. Let Todd, Wanda, and Freddy die. Let them join me in this miserable, pathetic death-wish of a world I now remained in. What did I care? What the fuck mattered now that I'd lost his love?

When I finally collapsed onto the dirty, plaster-covered floor, they were all gone. My head pounded and split with every ragged breath I took. It felt like there was a knife in my skull, planted deep and twisting. The excruciating migraine I'd given myself had me doubled over in no time, dry heaves rippling my tense and battered body. And for what felt like the millionth time that week, I was sobbing again. Each jarring spasm of my muscles only made the torture in my head worse.

Suddenly, like a kick to the face, the telephone began to ring right by my ear. I gasped as the noise drove the knife repeatedly between my eyes.

Silently, I reached up, grabbed the phone with a weak, trembling hand, and set it back onto the receiver with a tiny "click".

I found out who was on the phone the very next day; but instead of telling you that, let me instead go back to about a week and a half ago. Let me tell you the story that took me and the police months to uncover – the story of what really happened to my baby.

So, Pietro had indeed stormed out, hurt and upset over my petty jealousy. He hit a few stores that night and robbed them of various comforts; mainly booze and candy. As my darling stumbled around town, a strange combination of drunk and energetic, he came upon a place he'd never seen before in Bayville. Of course this was because he wasn't in Bayville's business district anymore, but had actually wandered into an old park by a small subdivision right on the outskirts of our city. He drifted through the new little park, and found its long shadows and ancient trees strangely intimidating. There seemed to be no one around; and so he sat down on a bench, pulled his knees up, and huddled up against himself to block out the chilly nighttime air. And then, convinced he'd get warmer if he finished off his last bottle of booze, he uncapped it and sipped for about twenty minutes.

When he was almost done, a man appeared, virtually from out of nowhere, and sat down on the bench next to him. "Hey, kid," the guy started, staring at him from the dark. "You old enough to be drinking that?"

Now any normal person would assume that this strange newcomer was a cop and lie; but not my poor, drunken Pietro.

"No," he said, studying the older man quizzically. "I'm only eighteen."

"Well, I won't tell anyone if you let me have some," the stranger promised, smiling a nice smile at my boy and his bottle of liquor. Pietro blinked at him and passed the amber tinted bottle over. "Thanks, kid," he'd replied after downing a hot mouthful. "Name's Sal."

"Pietro," my baby replied, though he began to feel a little worried when the guy didn't leave and showed no signs of doing so either.

"What're you doing out here so late, Pietro?" He began to study his face, dark eyes tracing over the smooth skin and soft lines. Pietro's cheeks were flushed and his nose was red – both typical from the chilly breeze that fluttered his thick, snowy hair. He looked so intriguing, with his pretty face and wide blue eyes, that Sal must have been captivated. Meanwhile, Pietro squirmed under the man's suspicious attention and looked away at the distant, skeletal swingset on the other end of the park.

"Um, I got into a fight with someone," he finally murmured.

"With who?"

And against his better judgment, Pietro told him. "My boyfriend."

"Oh," the man known as Sal replied with flat, fake interest. "You have a boyfriend."

"Yeah..."

"Is he older than you?" he asked from out of nowhere.

"Uhhhh," Pietro stammered stupidly, for he was desperately confused. "Yes?"

"And does he love you?" Sal asked my baby softly, leaning in a bit closer to him.

Pietro began to shiver. He looked around quickly, planning possible routes he could take if he needed to run. "I-I guess so," he replied nervously, his voice quiet and timid. As what usually happened when he became jittery, he began to babble. "We had out first anniversary three months ago. He bought me this ring." My darling then held out his hand and showed the stranger the single, shining silver band I'd given him. "The back says, 'Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen'... it's kind of an inside thing with us. It's from Moulin Rouge."

Momentarily, he forgot his growing fear and thought of me, and the first time we'd kissed. He thought of how corny the engraving was, but had still been very fond of it, for the song had, in a way, become ours. There had been times in the past where we'd cuddle together in bed and I'd sing it softly into his ear. I was well aware of how sappy it was whenever I did it, but not more so than the wild flowers I'd pick for him or the little love notes I'd leave on his pillow before work.

Suddenly, Pietro found it very hard to be mad at me.

"Wow," Sal replied, his eyes not on Pietro's ring at all, but instead on his face. He quickly plotted how that look of distraction my boy had could work to his advantage. "Sounds like he really loves you."

"He does," Pietro sighed, a bit enamored, as he stared down into the tiny reflections in his ring.

"To you and your boyfriend, then," the man said, his plan finally set into place and ready to begin. "And your very romantic anniversary." He held the bottle out to Pietro, offering the one last sip left at its bottom.

And that was it, the split-second before the attack. As my unsuspecting darling smiled amiably and reached towards the bottle, Sal lashed out like lightning and grabbed a hold of his slender wrist. He tightened and pulled, yanking Pietro clear off the bench and against his body. Before he had time to cry out in shock, Pietro's mouth was covered by Sal's large, clammy hand.

Muffled, he tried to scream but had no success. In seconds, his attacker had him pinned to the bench. Pietro gawked at him with wild, petrified eyes, his tiny body trembling and his blood turning to ice under the man's sturdier weight. "He sure does love you," Sal laughed, his voice hissing low and sinister like a serpent's. Pietro could smell the alcohol on his breath. "He'll pay a ton for your safe return." And then, he pulled his hand back and struck my horrified love with a nauseating crack. Several more punches followed, all sounding dead and blunt in the crisp fall air.

Pietro saw stars, his head swimming. And all of a sudden he was being lifted off the ground and carried away. But through all of the fear and painful delirium, he was still able to think of a plan. As Sal pulled him up off the bench, thinking he was stunned, Pietro reached out and grabbed the discarded bottle of alcohol.

His senses returned quickly, and once they were halfway across the park, he struck the bottle against the rim of a nearby trash can, shattering the glass so all that remained was a long jagged edge.

Sal tried to twist around as fast as he could once he heard the sound, but his habit of throwing his victims across the shoulder and Pietro's super-speed worked against him. With a growl, my love lifted the glass above his head and slashed down deep into Sal's back.

The criminal let out a scream as his mind was overridden by pain. He stumbled to the ground and gasped as Pietro pulled the glass back with a disgusting, wet slurp. "Let me go!" my boy screamed as he hit the grass hard, Sal's weight pressing him down painfully. His fist came up and drove with sharp accuracy across his attacker's jaw.

But to his despair, the man snatched his wrist again and held on tight, his strength almost doubled by his pain. Pietro gasped as Sal's nails split the skin of his wrist and swung the glass again, this time slicing a long gash down his assailant's arm.

Luck was not on his side that night, however, as he realized with despair. Instead of letting go and giving him space to wriggle free, the heavily bleeding man fell forward once more and crushed Pietro's legs beneath him. Sal struggled, a knee unintentionally connecting with his victim's stomach. Pietro coughed violently, the air rushing from his lungs, and remained writhing on the ground even as his enemy stumbled deliriously to his feet. To insure there'd be no more get-away attempts, he pulled a leg back and delivered a vicious kick to Pietro's groin. My battered darling's breath hissed with a tiny shriek through his teeth as he lost his mind in the grotesque pain stabbing up from between his legs.

All of my assumptions were wrong, by the way. He never saw Sal pull the gun out from under his parka, and he didn't scream as the trigger was pulled four times.

Pietro was unconscious for four and a half days. Not only had he been suffering from a bullet wound in his hip and three to his legs, but he'd suffered a massive amount of blood loss as well. He was still clinging to life, however, his heart beating slowly and softly. Sal had gone to a doctor for his wounds, and ended up with forty-three stitches and seven staples in his back. When he got back, he cleaned his victim's injuries as best as he could and left him there to rest.

When Pietro woke up he felt like his entire body was caving in on itself. Pain was screaming through his lower body; there were so many agonizing waves of torture in his flesh that he rolled over and began to gag. His stomach was completely empty, however, and had been for days. Slowly, through the hazy, misty world around his eyes, he began to realize that he was starving to death on the floor of a strange room.

Without the strength to move any further, he fell to his side, and fell into the broken sleep of the suffering.

And so he blinked in and out of consciousness several times that week. Occasionally when he was awake, his kidnapper would limp down to the tiny room and spoon-feed him bowls of oatmeal. Then he would dress Pietro's wounds once more, stick a few painkillers in his mouth, and watch as he swallowed them frantically. Sal would then smile, pat my baby on the shoulder, and say, "That's the way, Pietro."

Unfortunately for the kidnapper, Pietro hadn't had a bit of I.D. on him that night. He had no way of telling where my boy lived and none of the articles in the newspaper gave him any clues. And so he could not figure out a way to contact what he assumed was Pietro's rich older boyfriend. Whenever he could, he'd leave the house and look for clues, which left his fragile hostage alone.

After the seventh day on the man's floor, Pietro began to realize where he was and what was happening to him. It all came rushing back to him then – the conversation in the bench, the struggle... _I lost,_ he thought despairingly. _I lost and not only that, but he shot my legs so I couldn't run away. _

Finally, he gathered the strength to sit up and strip the bandages away. And to his surprise he saw that they were healing rather quickly. He gave one wound a curious poke and screamed, his eyes rolling back into his head. 

"Fuck!" he gasped, breaking out into a cold sweat as his face turned green. "_Fuck_... that maniac didn't take the bullets out!" _Well, that explains why it feels like people are hacking my legs off when I try to move them. There're bullets lodged against the bones. FUCK._

Suddenly, he heard the front door of the house open and shut. The monster had returned.

Pietro swallowed nervously, shut his eyes, and pretended to sleep. But in his head he was calculating a plan quicker than a computer.

That night, as Sal came down to feed him, Pietro laid out on the floor against the wall and started to cough right as a spoonful of oatmeal was moving towards his mouth. It resulted in the spoon's contents spilling on his face, but he didn't care. Because Sal hissed, "Fuck!" and proceeded to clean it up. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I feel like shit," Pietro grumbled in a wheezing, aching voice.

"You coming down with something?" his kidnapper asked. Then a realization dawned on him. "Oh Christ, I hope you're not getting an infection... I'll be damned if some fucking bacteria kills you before I get my money." And then, to Pietro's delight, Sal leaned in and began inspecting his face for signs of illness. As he placed a hand on his smooth forehead, my baby sprung up and placed a hard kiss on the chapped lips of his attacker.

The monster gasped and dropped the bowl of oatmeal, stiffening in shock at this sudden act. Pietro wasted no time. He reached up, grabbed two thick handfuls of the man's shirt, and a scream summoned what strength he had to propel Sal against the wall. His head hit with a rattling crack and he fell, limp and twitching, right on top of Pietro.

Pietro chewed his lip and tried to ignore the shrieking pain in his legs as he tried to crawl out from under the unconscious man. By the time he was out he was panting and sick from the pain. "Come on, Pietro," he told himself miserably, his eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears. "No time to quit now. Let's go."

And then he drew himself up the best he could, leaned on the wall for support, and pushed. The agony of holding his weight on his legs was unbearable. It felt like knives ripping the flesh from his bones each time the bullets shifted. Pietro was openly weeping then, and struggling to stay up as he followed the wall to the door. Thankfully, Sal had left it open.

Unfortunately, in his state of torture and illness, my poor, stupid darling never once thought of using the man's phone (he later admitted sheepishly). He decided, foolishly, that the quickest method of getting the bullets out was to do it himself. And then afterwards, he could just patch it up and make his way back home.

It seemed like years before he reached the kitchen. Florescent lights blinded him momentarily, making him waver and stumble as he dragged across the tile. Every limp was enough to drive him mad. In those moments, where it seemed like nothing in the world could hurt more than walking, Pietro tried to think of me. He thought about how worried I must have been, and how upset. _I bet he's blaming himself_, he thought, trying to be cheerful but failing. _That dork._

His hand finally closed upon the item he'd come for – a long, sharp kitchen knife. As he collapsed into a chair, Pietro cut a dish rag into long cloth strips and prepared, hand shaking, for what he was about to do.

It felt like a thousand years. It felt like the universe was being pulled apart, slice by slice, his mind driven onto the rocks as sweat poured down his face and bile rose to his throat. He wanted to die in those moments more than anything. He wanted to raise the knife and dig it into his throat instead of his legs. Pietro had to fight the urge to faint again and again, and a few times, when he fingers were slippery with fresh blood, he'd drop the knife and have to bend himself excruciatingly down onto the ground to pick it up again.

But all of a sudden the sound of the final bullet hit the ground. Pietro blinked down at it, his eyes bleary and burning from the tears. It swam there, innocently, in a pool of rusty red that he finally came to realize was his blood. It continued to leak down his leg and out his hip, so Pietro, who wanted nothing more than to pass out and never wake up again, had to once again tend to the wounds.

An hour later he limped out of Sal's house, his legs wrapped in bloody rags, the leftovers of the dish towel pressed weakly to his hip, and three bottles of painkillers in his pocket. As daylight hit his blistering eyes and sallow gray skin, Pietro hissed and curled in on himself. _Where the fuck am I?_ he thought as he looked around the neighborhood through the cracks of his fingers.

The problem came from the fact that he'd wandered into the neighborhood drunk, and therefore had no idea how he got there or even where "there" was. All he knew was that he had to get far away from the house and out of that neighborhood, before someone saw him. And so he swallowed down his nausea and tried to focus on home. Once again he thought of me, and the look on my face when he'd get there. He also thought of poor Wanda, and wondered how she was dealing with his absence.

And so Pietro limped, and limped, and limped away some more for as long as he could. Often he'd crash down onto the ground and nod away into a hazy nap, filled with sketchy dreams of bones and blood. But the horror of his kidnapper finding him again awoke him each time, and would give him the strength to get up again and continue his escape.

In his state of agony and delirium, Pietro failed to realize that he was moving towards the outskirts of Bayville. His path had been in the wrong direction; so as he pressed on, he realized with terror that he didn't recognize any of the landmarks. _Where am I?_ he thought constantly as he turned this way and that, making a slow, jagged line across another field. _Where did he take me?_ He was suddenly very, very sorry that he hadn't thought to just call the police at his kidnapper's home.

On the first night, Pietro took too many painkillers and passed out under a tree. His slumber shook his flesh and made him sweat, but he didn't wake up until many hours later. He nearly lost his mind that morning as he rose, for the first thought in his head was that he was back in Romania. _Where's Mama and Poppa? Where is everyone?_

"Wanda!" he cried out pathetically, still half-asleep and sick from the pills. "Wanda! Mama, Poppa! LANCE!"

Pietro wept slow, glistening tears, and fell back asleep. This time he only rested a few more hours.

That evening he awoke, blinked at the setting sun, and turned to the side and threw up. As he coughed and retched loudly, he thought, _Oh FUCK. I really am getting sick. I have to get to a doctor._ So after his stomach settled, he pulled his heavy, throbbing mess of a body up and began to travel again. He went for half a mile this time before he fell back to the ground.

As my baby scanned the surroundings he finally noticed in the fading light the roofs of houses in the distance. Ahead lay a new subdivision, one that he was sure must have been in Bayville. And so after a short rest, he hurried as quickly as he could on his battered legs to the homes.

It was night by the time he arrived. And as he knocked on the door, he looked around and realized with a sinking heart that he didn't recognize anything still. Thankfully, he didn't have too much time to contemplate his surroundings. The door opened and in front of him, gawking and turning completely white, was a middle aged woman with a scarf in her hair.

"Excuse me," he gasped, trying to force a smile onto his face. "May I use your phone?"

He'd been a little annoyed when he finally got to make his call and someone picked up, only to put the phone back down again. "Bastard," he hissed at the offending hanger-upper, but didn't have time to rant anymore. A police officer was poking at his leg and making the most awful shooting pains hit the center of his brain. "Ow! Be careful!" he whined pitifully.

"Okay, son... I want you to tell me who did this to you," the cop said, trying to be gentle, even though he was obviously freaked out. Another officer was dealing with the hysterical woman whose house Pietro had invaded, and yet another was on his radio, calling the hospital to be ready for my arrival. "Multiple wounds, possibly stabbings..." my boy heard him say.

"They're not," Pietro corrected, though he doubt the cop had heard him. "They're gunshot wounds. I had the dig the bullets out with a kitchen knife."

The officer focusing on him blinked and stammered, "W-What? Uh... I'm sorry, son, but if you'll please answer my question..." He obviously looked a little disturbed at what Pietro had just admitted.

"To be honest, I have no idea who he was," he said, groggy and swirling through a long pit of agony once more. "Just some guy." My baby reached into his pocket and slid out one of the bottles of painkillers.

"Let me see that!" the officer demanded suddenly. He snatched the bottle away and read the label, his eyes lighting up and his eyebrows hitching towards his hairline.

"Terrance," he called to the cop on the radio. "I think we've got our man!"

There wasn't too much they could do for him at the hospital; only stitch him up, pump his stomach, prescribe him some antibiotics, and let him go. He did have a mild infection, but due to it being in the beginning stages, it really was nothing to worry about.

"Remember to take those three times a day," the doctor had reminded him constantly. "And Tylenol for the pain."

"Oh, I won't forget those," Pietro had responded with a chuckle.

He had stayed a night, just to be safe. There he stuffed his belly with as much bad hospital food as he could, and enjoyed the wonderful pain relief that could only come from morphine. The stitches in his legs and thighs were deep and ugly, but he didn't care. _They'll heal quickly, like they always do._

On the fourth day of his freedom, Pietro requested a ride back home from the cop questioning him. To his surprise, he'd gotten it immediately after being discharged from the hospital. To the police, he was still a nameless kid, because each time they looked for answers he'd either been too drugged up to respond or cranky as he came down from a high. However, the station did have some idea; who else could possibly fit such a unique description?

Maybe that was why the officer was so willing to drive him home afterwards. Or maybe he just felt bad for him. Either way, Pietro sat happily in the cop car, for once in the passenger's seat and not behind bars, and took a long, twenty-minute drive into the city of Bayville. They made a short stop at the station that had been handling his murder investigation, so the cop could let them know that he'd found their boy.

"Oh my God!" Pietro heard someone yell as he shifted in the shallow leather seat. "It's a miracle!"

And all of a sudden a happy young officer, with dirty blonde hair and fatigue circles under his eyes, came bounding into his vision. He stopped, grinned a hundred watt grin, and bent down to shake my baby's hand.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Pietro," the new officer said. "I'm Officer Sanders. I've been investigating your murder."

"Leave me alone," I growled as I put my head in my hands. There was a loud, persistent knock on the door, and it was annoying the fuck out of me. "Leave me ALONE." Still they paid no attention, or didn't hear me. And so I grit my teeth, ice bag pressed to my still aching temples, and climbed off the couch.

_I hate this fucking door,_ I grumbled over and over again on the way there. _Nothing but bad news._

"What do you WANT?" I asked, irritated, as I yanked the door open and glared at the person behind it.

My jaw fell, along with the ice pack. It hit the floor hard and spilled cubes onto the tile, but I'll be damned if I noticed at the time.

"Hey, baby," Pietro greeted, a resurrected angel on my doorstep. I stood, numb shock in my heart, and scanned his face to make sure he wasn't an illusion. All week I had seen images of him across the house – all dry, dark skin and flat eyes that held no laughter. But here he was, flesh and blood, with the sun on his face and blood in his cheeks. He looked so beautiful to me then that I fell against the frame of the door and choked.

"I don't believe it," I wept quietly, bringing my hands up to cover my eyes as I sobbed. "You're..."

"Back," he said sweetly. He reached up, moved the fists away from my face, and pressed his warm body to mine. Finally, my baby kissed me under the sun and, oh god, I felt his heart beating and it brought me to tears for the very last time. As our lips separated, again he breathed, "I'm back."

A/N: Don't you just hate me?

This is dedicated to my darling Omi, who died not too long ago. I wish we had gotten the happy ending I gave Pietro and Lance. RIP, babe. I'm going to miss you for the rest of my life.


End file.
